The Psycho and The Psych
by cuddly carrots
Summary: Title and rating subject to change. Shawn is kidnapped by a real sicko of a psycho, and that's only the beginning. Is this case too much for him to handle? Will Shawn finally grow up? But more importantly-where's the pineapple? Read it and find out!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I believe this mathematical proof shall explain all.

Cuddly Carrots = Female

Steve Franks = Male

Female = Fe + Male

Male=Female - Fe

Therefore, by the Transitive Property of Equality,

Cuddly Carrots = Steve Franks + Fe

Steve Franks=Cuddly Carrots - Fe

Standard form: No, I don't own Psych, nor do I own the Transitive Property of Equality. I do, however, participate in an AP Calculus class. Don't drink and derive.

iiiii

_Thursday March 24, 1992_

iiiii

"Shawn! Quit trying to lick the icing off of Gus's cupcake and get your own!" Henry yells as he watches Shawn stick his tongue out at Gus's outstretched arm, the awkward and rather scrawny boy unaware of the impending danger his confectionery is in due to his best friend's love of all things sugary and pineapple flavored—like the icing on the cupcakes.

"Shawn! I can't believe you! That's disgusting!" Gus quickly jerks his cupcake towards his chest, but it's too late. The cupcake has been contaminated by Shawn's saliva.

Gus glares at Shawn in disgust and throws the cupcake in his face. It was one of Gus's finer moments.

"Gus! Dude! So not cool! This was my favorite shirt!" Shawn yelled as the cupcake fell from his face to smear all over Captain Crunch's hat.

"Yeah, just like icing is my favorite part of a cupcake! You know that Shawn!"

"But it wasn't my fault!"

"Shawn, if you're going to say the gremlins made you do it, then don't! I'm tired of you always doing stuff like this and blaming someone else, especially when it's so obviously you!"

"But it really wasn't! I swear! You—" Shawn was cut off by Henry, who decided to finally intervene.

"No Shawn. One of these days, you're going to have to realize that when it comes to your actions, you have no one to blame but yourself. There's going to come a day when you mess up so bad, that the only way to get out is to fess up." Henry's prophetic words rang in the air, despite Shawn's apparent apathy as he sulked off.

iiiii

_Present Day_

iiiii

Pseudo Psychic, Shawn Spencer knew that today would be a bad day despite his bubbling, easy-going and pleasant outlook on life.

It started when he woke up and felt a lump pressed against his back, a lump that would mean old people back pain for a week—coincidentally, a lump that also meant that he needed a new laptop, the old one having been crushed to death by Shawn's erratic sleep movements. How was he supposed to know that when he was dreaming of saving Spongebob's house from the nematodes, he was actually karate chopping the screen in? Or that instead of holding one of said nematodes down with his foot and handcuffing the thing, he was actually ripping the screen from his laptop (he didn't even know he was that strong, but Shawn wasn't about to tell anyone that)?

He didn't know how the computer keys became dislodged and joined forces with his comforter to make his day as difficult as possible. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to know that one…

The day was still salvageable—two Aleves later—even when his first customer of the day came ridiculously early, leaving him no time to grab a pineapple smoothie from Jamba when the rude dude called Shawn's cell phone sounding irate and not taking any of Shawn's psychic excuses about his alleged 'tardiness' (sometimes, people could be so needy…). Even after he realized that the chicken he ate for lunch wasn't cooked properly and the restaurant bathroom had no toilet paper, he felt that the day still had a shining chance.

He went home early—best part about being psychic. At any time, he could go home and take a nap to "reconfigure his inner eye" and skive off work. He also had the power to not take any cases after two, due to the draining effect of solar flares on his connection to the world beyond. Life was good.

Humming to himself some 80s song that probably should have stayed in the 80s, he chopped up a pineapple and put some off to the side—he was in the mood for some good, old-fashioned, home made Pineapple Upside Down Cake. Yum. He took the rest and put it in the blender—on his way back, he made a stop at Jamba, but they had run out of pineapple smoothie flavor (rats )—and added the other, less important, non-pineapple ingredients. He pre-heated his Easy Bake Oven and got to mixing his smoothie in the blender. Perhaps this wasn't going to be the worst day ever. It still had a chance to redeem itself! It was only two o'clock, for crying out loud! Shawn smiled and ignored the knot in his back.

Smoothie done, poured into a special occasion cup, and topped with a paper umbrella and straw, he checked on the Oven and found it a suitable warmth. He continued on with making his cake, sipping his smoothie all the while.

He nearly put it into the Oven when he saw those disappointingly nasty pineapple jelly beans and got an idea (that no one at home should ever try unless accompanied by an adult mature enough to pass as parental supervision). He added the jelly beans to his cake and put it in the Oven, clapping excitedly as he stared at it in pride.

He grabbed his half-slurped smoothie, went into his bedroom and then cleared his bed of his laptop's remains, happily humming a rather up beat funeral dirge. He put his smoothie on the nightstand, got into bed and pulled up his covers. He reached again for the smoothie when his highly trained eyes caught a movement in the corner, nearest his head. He quickly looked over, but instead heard a loud _thwack_ and felt intense pain across his forehead. He saw stars for a brief moment before everything went black.

When he woke, he found himself strapped in a chair that looked as if it belonged in a Criminal Minds episode, instead of taking a nap in his room, waiting for the Easy Bake to finish cooking his Pineapple Upside Down Cake.

At that point, he finally succumbed to the fact that today just wasn't his day.

iiiii

_The Next Day_

iiiii

"Dang it Shawn! Quit screwin' around and answer your dang phone!" Gus pressed re-dial again, despite the fact that he was driving and really should have been paying more attention to the road. He knew the risks, but this was important, dang it!

Gus finally gave up and decided to just drive on over to Shawn's apartment, finding the Psych office oddly empty. Shawn usually was in there before Gus! It was the only thing Gus ever saw Shawn be punctual for—or at least, punctual for a two day streak. But it really wasn't _that_ odd, considering Shawn was still late a good two days out of the week. Gus shook his head in that sassy way of his. He decided that one of these days, _he_ was going to become the irresponsible friend and see how Shawn liked that!

Gus smirked until he conceded that knowing Shawn, he probably would like it. Shawn would probably be proud, actually.

Gus sighed. He just never could win anything when it came to Shawn—except that one time, when he smeared that cupcake all over Shawn's stupid Captain Crunch t-shirt.

It _was_ one of his finer moments.

Gus's smirk came back on.

Gus turned into the drive of the building shared with a Laundromat. Only Shawn could possibly have chosen a place to live simply because it was near a place that served pineapple smoothies.

Gus rolled his eyes at Shawn's motorcycle. He knew that Shawn only got it to tick off his father, despite what Shawn told everyone else about "the feeling of the wind against his face, whispering 'freedom, freedom!'". Shawn could be so full of it sometimes.

Gus opened the door—Shawn always forgot to lock it, despite his remarkable ability to detect the slightest idiosyncrasies of strangers within two minutes. It always bothered Gus. Despite his constant nagging and general disapproval, and Shawn's constant need to find out what the next big, stupid and irresponsible thing to do is, they were still best friends. Gus worried about him.

Of course, Gus also worried about everything else, but that was irrelevant.

Gus looked inside and found the usual mess, but there was something else…Something felt off.

Something felt…wrong.

It wasn't the feeling he got when Shawn had just done something stupid and life-altering (like buying the Psych office and using Gus's name without consulting him), it was a different kind of dread. He tried to ignore it and entered Shawn's home anyways.

He smelled something burning, something…pineapple? Shawn never left something pineapple flavored to burn. It just wasn't in his nature.

Gus came into the kitchen and unplugged the Easy Bake Oven that had obviously been sitting for a while, considering the foul odor permeating from it and the suggestions of the slightest tendrils of smoke escaping it. Gus's worry increased, but of course it could have just been one of Shawn's bizarre experiments. You never really knew when it came to Shawn Spencer.

"Shawn? Are you here?" Gus called. It wasn't normal. Usually by now Shawn was either sneaking up on Gus and scaring the living daylights out of him, or playfully teasing him—despite his sensitive disposition—well, more likely in _spite_ of his sensitive disposition.

"Shawn! This isn't funny!" Gus called out again, the sense of dread building and building as he walked through the obviously deserted place. Had Shawn left again? No, his motorcycle was still parked outside. He'd never leave without that thing. He was paranoid that his father would get a hold of it and sell it to a chop shop, piece by piece. Knowing Shawn's father, this fear wasn't exactly unfounded.

Gus walked to Shawn's bedroom and knocked—he'd made that mistake before and knew better than to repeat it, one never really did know what Shawn could possibly be up to behind closed doors, and really, it was better left that way.

"Shawn! Wake up!" Gus said, his voice shaking a bit. If this was a prank, he just might finally murder that scrawny, pitiful excuse of a friend.

No sound came from behind the door, no giggles, no shifting.

Nothing.

"Fine! I'm coming in, and so help me if I find you doing something that'll put me into a catatonic state again!" He wondered if Shawn even knew the what word 'catatonic' was for a brief second before opening the door to find exactly what he had hoped to never find—except perhaps the day Shawn told him that the ghost behind his wall had actually been a walkie-talkie.

What? He was really pissed at Shawn that day, I'm just saying.

iiiii

"Mr. Spencer, so nice of you to join us." A calming voice spoke from the shadows. Something though, bothered him about the voice. It sounded…odd. He couldn't place it, and it definitely wasn't familiar, but something wasn't right about it—beyond the fact that he was strapped down to a chair, of course.

Shawn couldn't see his captor at all, despite the skills his father instilled in him since the day he accidentally told his dad he wanted to be a police officer.

Shawn Spencer was one of the very few people who could say that the very worst mistake of their life was made at the tender age of five.

"Yeah…thank you so much for your lovely invitation. I would have RSVP'd the moment I got it, but you know how life is." Shawn denied that the pain across his forehead and the rasp in his voice ruined any of the wit in his words. Talking had been a mistake. He now felt nauseous and realized that his forehead was covered in something wet and sticky. Ew. Maybe when—_if_ would technically be the correct term, but he didn't want to dwell on that—he got out of there, he could gross out Gus with the gore-fest on his forehead. It was an interesting idea to entertain. Definitely had some merit to it.

"Indeed." The voice spoke, breaking Shawn out of his reverie, but Shawn still couldn't see the face the voice belonged to, nor could he figure out what was so weird about the voice.

"You know, my nose really itches." Shawn said, grasping at straws to see if he could talk his way out of the mess he was in.

"Does it, now?" The voice sounded slightly amused.

"Oh yes. In fact, unless if I scratch it now, then my nose mites will rebel and jump onto you." Shawn said. "It's a fatal parasite. I'll probably die soon, and then, you'll really have to worry, you see, because then, they'll all jump out onto you and you'll have to itch your nose everyday for the rest of your life until they finally eat the nasonic lobe, killing you in a very slow and painful manner. The scratching soothes them and slows their progress. I would know. It's a very rare parasite. The last people to have contracted them were the ancient Egyptians. That's why the Sphinx doesn't have a nose. It's the only way to get rid of them, you know. For me, the diagnosis came too late, but you can still have a chance, just let me scratch my nose."

"Is that so? Pity, for you that is. I happen to be immune to nose mites." The voice said.

"Really? I was unaware that people could be immune to nose mites, unless of course if—OH MY—" Shawn screamed before he could finish talking, for his captor had finally stepped out from the shadows and into the light.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

iiiii

Juliet O'Hara had just sat down at her desk, ready to read some files for her newest case, when her pager went off.

_Hmm. That's odd, usually it doesn't go off so soon in the morning_, she thought to herself. She looked at it and began to head over to the conference room, humming to herself. Today was a good day so far, but most days were. She was just a happy person in general, in all honesty.

She continued her cheerful trip to the conference room, smiling at everyone as was her usual custom, despite certain kill-joys and happiness suckers who liked to sue people for taking the time to try and get to know them.

Juliet frowned a bit at the thought. It was still a sore spot that Lassie—er—Detective Lassiter still liked to tease her about. Juliet waved at the secretary and smiled again, deciding to not let negativity and the insensitivity of others ruin her day. She rounded the corner and reached the conference room, waves of optimism rolling off of her determinedly. Her eyes widened.

_Everyone_ was there, even the janitor—of course, that was probably because someone spilled their coffee, judging by the brown liquid on the floor—but still! _Everyone_ was there!

Well, everyone except for Shawn. He was probably waiting for either the most exciting part of the meeting or the dullest to make a dramatic entrance, more than likely solving whatever the case was that Chief Vick needed so many people for.

Juliet frowned. Someone else was missing…

Gus!

That was odd. He was usually so punctual—where was he?

Juliet looked around and noted everyone else's confusion. She looked over at Lassiter—and rolled her eyes, sometimes she wondered how she managed not wring his neck. Lassiter was lounging back in his rolling chair, an air of "Look at me, I'm superior to all of you lower forms of life, despite the fact that Detective O'Hara got a higher score on the deductive reasoning test than I did" hanging about him. She caught McNab's eyes. He was a bit more reasonable. Nice. Friendly. He always made her smile.

Sure enough, McNab was grinning away. He shrugged, and indicated the seat next to him. He was just so nice. Juliet smiled warmly and went to sit next to him.

"Hey, McNab. Do you know what's going on?" Juliet asked.

"Nope. Seems strange though, doesn't it? I mean, last time Chief Vick called us all here together, didn't it have something to do with Yang?"

"Yeah. I hope it's nothing too serious…" Juliet trailed off.

"Yeah, me—" McNab was cut off by Chief Vick's sudden appearance.

"I have called you all here because something serious has happened." Chief Vick announced grimly.

Everyone sat up straighter, even Lassiter. It was almost kind of comical—she could see why Shawn teased the man so much. He was just such a…such a…do-gooder teacher's pet suck up brown nose. He practically _begged_ for a good dressing down, of course, it could just be that hanging around with Shawn so much was beginning to rub off on her.

"One of our very own has been taken." Chief Vick announced, her eyes sweeping across the room and boring into everyone else's. The room went dead quiet for a second before everyone shuffled a bit to see who was missing. Juliet had a bad feeling in her gut. Only two people were missing from the room, and she was dating one of them.

"This morning, Mr. Guster went to Mr. Spencer's apartment to find that Mr. Spencer wasn't there." Chief Vick said. Juliet's heart plummeted into her stomach, squishing the butterflies that had fluttered around the moment she walked in and saw everyone in the room.

The air became so tense, a machete would have been needed to slice through it, until a snort broke the silence.

"Well, pardon me for interrupting, but that doesn't mean we should be concerned. Spencer probably just skipped town and went to bother someone else!" Lassiter snorted again, looking a bit too gleeful, but cowered slightly under Chief Vick's glare.

"If you have finished, Detective Lassiter." She was so scary sometimes, even Hercules would have cowered at the look she was sending Lassiter. Serves him right, though, Juliet thought smugly. "Mr. Guster entered Mr. Spencer's apartment and did not find him. What Mr. Guster found instead was Mr. Spencer's motorcycle, his pineapple crap burning in an Easy Bake Oven, a broken lap top, and blood all over Mr. Spencer's sheets!" Chief Vick slammed her hands on the table, causing everyone to jump. Lassiter looked down at the floor, avoiding her gaze. Juliet froze, a horrified expression on her face, and all thoughts of sticking it to Lassiter forgotten.

"Now, despite any…personal…" Chief Vick spat that last word out with such venom, Lassiter quivered a bit, "…ties to this case, I want everyone to take this on as top priority. Though Mr. Spencer may not be an actual officer, and his methods questionable, he is still one of us. Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter, I want both of you at the scene. You two will take charge. McNab, I want you to talk to Mr. Guster, and perhaps calm him down a bit. He's a little…distressed, and I want you to notify Henry. He's taking a vacation, and I think he ought to know ASAP. Under no circumstances is he to join the case. Understood? Everyone else, do what you'd normally do if this were any other case, and if you don't know what to do, take another case and see what you can do to keep us from getting too backed up on cases for the time being. Now go!" Chief Vick glared and everyone scattered, frightened.

iiiii

Shawn was still screaming ten minutes later, voice showing no signs of ever giving out.

"For the love of Eros, will you shut the heck up!" Shawn continued to scream in that girly way. "Oh my gosh! What are you, part banshee?" Shawn's kidnapper cried in pain, hands covering his ears.

Shawn still screamed, if anything, it got louder.

"That's it! If you don't shut up, I'm taping your mouth shut!" Shawn stopped.

"Thank you Mr. Spencer. Now, say goodnight." Shawn's kidnapper laughed evilly, but first, he gagged Shawn. He was a smart man. He could learn from his mistakes.

"If you're good, I promise you won't feel a thing. And then afterwards, the _real_ fun will begin." The man smirked as Shawn watched in horror. The man pulled something out from inside his pockets in that long trench coat of his, something that cast a long shadow on the wall…

iiiii

Carlton stepped out of his Crown Victoria, slamming the door with unnecessary force. He rolled his eyes at O'Hara's distress. For all he knew, this was some elaborate prank on Gus, or even on the entire SBPD and they were going to walk in and find nothing more than Spencer laughing hysterically while cleaning the red Kool-Aide out of his sheets.

He impatiently walked up to the door and saw the yellow tape and forensic lab geeks pilfering about. He heard O'Hara's gasp next to him and rolled his eyes again. He scrunched up his nose for a moment in revulsion.

"What the Hell?" Carlton said aloud. It smelled like a mix between burning plastic, pineapple, and something else he couldn't place his finger on.

"Chief Vick said that Gus came here and found Shawn's pineapple mess, remember?" He noticed that she didn't remind him of the other, albeit limited, details the Chief gave them. He also remembered her gasp, so she really wasn't one to talk. He had to admit, the smell was atrocious.

"I know that, O'Hara!" Carlton said gruffly without the least bit of petty.

He caught the roll of her eyes.

"Yeah. Whatever." She mumbled. Carlton decided to ignore it and grabbed one of the scrawny cop-wannabes and see what was going on.

"You! Tell me what you know." He said, grabbing the kid's arm with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

"Oh!" The kid started, but had more guts than Carlton would have guessed because he looked him right in the eye as he briefed Carlton on their findings. "No sign of forced entry, so he either knew his attacker, or what I think is more likely considering the scene, the vic left the door unlocked." Carlton nodded. It was precisely the thing the cocky con artist would do. Forgetting to lock his door. Moron. "The vic wasn't expecting anything because not only, though I'm sure you can smell it too, was he cooking up some sort of bizarre pineapple thing, but he had an unfinished smoothie spilled all over the floor, as if it had been knocked over in a struggle. The perp wore gloves, so—"

"How do you know that?"

"Because the weapon used to knock the vic out is still here with no fingerprints on it. He either did a damn good job of wiping it, or he wore gloves. Go into his room. That's where he was abducted from—but I'm warning you, it's not pretty."

"Thank you, Mr…" Carlton trailed off.

"My name is still the same as the last time you asked, Detective Lassiter. How difficult is it to remember Dr. Halls?" The kid muttered as he walked off.

Carlton frowned.

"Have I really asked him that before?"

"Every crime scene I've seen him at."

"Huh." Carlton shrugged his shoulders and went in the direct Dr. Halls indicated the crime scene was at.

He was right. It wasn't pretty.

Though not gory by movie standards, by real life standards it was a mess.

A shattered glass lay on the floor, covering the scene in that stupid pineapple crap Spencer always chugged as if it were water from the Fountain of Youth.

On the headboard and the wall behind it, there were a few blood spatters indicative of a struggle and a really bad headache later for Spencer—a thought that gave Carlton a sick sense of glee, until he saw the weapon and winced.

It was a long, hand carved, wooden cane. It was polished and perfect until one saw the end of the stick that obviously came in contact with Spencer's head, considering the way it was slightly cracked and splintered. It had a bit of blood on the end, probably due to the slight splintering rather than actual force, but when Carlton looked at it closer, he saw some odd looking raised defects that definitely weren't splinters.

"O'Hara, get me a glove, will you?" Carlton asked her without looking her way.

He felt her presence behind him a moment later. She pressed the glove into his hand. He put it on unceremoniously and strode over to the walking stick. He picked it up with the gloved hand and read the raised inscription. His face paled.

"What is that supposed to mean?" O'Hara asked, worry drenching her voice. Worry that Carlton now knew was well placed.

"It means, O'Hara, that Spencer is in more trouble than we thought." Was his solemn response.

_OBEY_

iiiii

Shawn flinched as the long hypodermic needle came after him—he really hated pointy things—and relaxed, knowing that any attempts at freeing himself in that moment would likely end in tearing his veins. The needle sank into his skin, the point sinking deeper and deeper until he felt the liquid shooting into his bloodstream, contaminating him with whatever the crap it was. His eyelids began to droop, the world began to spin, and before he lost sight of everything, he could have sworn he felt something wipe at his forehead. Something cold, harsh, and burning…

iiiii

Gus fidgeted in the chair, despite Buzz's attempts at calming him.

What should he do? Shawn was always the one who got them out of trouble like this! Gus was nothing without Shawn. He was just another ordinary, way too nerdy for his own good, do-right Pharmaceutical Salesman. The only really astounding thing about Gus besides his best friend, was his super sniffer! All that helped him do was tell that for some reason Shawn not only kept those rotten tasting pineapple jelly beans, but that he decided to add it to one of his equally distasteful Pineapple Upside Down Cakes he thought he could make with an Easy Bake Oven he got off of eBay! What did that accomplish? Nothing except a slight queasiness in his stomach.

"Look, Officer McNab. I appreciate your concern, but—" Gus was cut off by the sound of a door slamming hard. "Buzz, I thought the walls in the interrogation room were supposed to be sound proof?" Gus asked.

"They are." Buzz looked just as confused as Gus. "Stay here. I'm going to go see what's going on" Buzz got up and opened the door and when he did, there was a loud shout that could only mean one thing.

"I see that Shawn's dad has been notified." Gus said to Buzz.

"Yeah…I thought he sounded scary on the phone…"

"I think you might want to hide. I'm just saying." Gus said.

"Yeah…perhaps you're right…" Buzz watched as Mr. Spencer raged through the halls of the Santa Barbara Police Department, wearing a fisherman's hat covered in tackle, his fishing vest, dungarees and a shirt so bright that Gus felt his nausea return.

"Karen! Where the Hell is my son! Karen! KAREN!" Shawn's dad yelled like a madman.

Suddenly, Gus was glad to be tucked away safe in the interrogation room.

iiiii

Shawn woke up in pain.

Agony.

His head hurt so bad…

It felt almost as if it were on fire!

Shawn tried to scream, but something was in his mouth, choking him, gagging him—

He couldn't move! Something was wrong with him!

He wanted to open his eyes, but they wouldn't move! Nothing moved!

He heard a humming going on above the pain…cheerful, as though oblivious to the intense pain above him.

Shawn couldn't even make a joke, it hurt so bad!

"I think that around now, Mr. Spencer, you are probably waking up." The voice said. Shawn would have jumped, but he was trapped—frozen, helpless.

The pain paused and Shawn heard a rustling going on above him.

"Oh yes. I believe you have been awake for ten minutes, if I am correct." The rustling stopped and the pain continued. Shawn tried to gasp, to scream, anything, but he was still frozen.

"Don't worry. I am nearly done, of course you'll be sore for awhile." Shawn's tormenter chuckled. In any normal situation, it would have sounded normal, but the lightheartedness of it struck fear through Shawn. Here he was, frozen before a true maniac. Neither Yin nor Yang could possibly have anything on this guy. Shawn knew he was not only going to die, but worse, it would be painful and slow—if the fire dancing across his head was any sort of hint.

"You don't have much to fear despite the pain you're feeling. I'm going to let you live, of course. Well, I'm going to let you live _for now_, at least. I do have to show off my handiwork, don't I?" The voice snickered. "I mean, I can't possibly be doing all this work for naught, can I? No, no. That would never do. I am an artist, after all, and true artists do things for people to see.

"Of course, this isn't my only work when it comes to you, Mr. Spencer. In fact, this won't even be finished when I release you. No, my friend. I have plans for you. I have plans for you and Santa Barbara. You may not think so now, but don't worry. You are special.

"You, Mr. Spencer, are _mine_!" The voice cackled evilly and the pain seemed to intensify.

Shawn had never wanted to scream so badly in his life.

Blissfully, the world went black again.

iiiii

Carlton and O'Hara made it back to the station, mildly—to put it lightly—disturbed at what they had found.

Carlton himself usually tried to go with the simplest solution available to him, but this time, he was at a loss.

The inscription on the stick had been directly on the part that connected with Spencer's head. Had it been meant that way? Was the perp sending a message—stupid question. _Of course_ the perp was trying to send a message. He left the stick right in plain sight for all to see!

The freak probably even made it himself! Sometimes, Carlton was thoroughly disgusted with mankind.

Carlton shook his head, trying to clear it, and led O'Hara to the interrogation room.

"Karen! What the _Hell_ do you mean I can't help on this case! HE'S MY SON! MY _SON_!" A voice shouted from inside of Chief Vick's office.

"I see Henry has been informed." Carlton acknowledged.

"Poor Mr. Spencer…" O'Hara said softly.

They reverted back to their silence and continued on towards the interrogation room.

"Officer McNab, we'll take it from here." Carlton said as he entered the room.

"Alright, Detective. I guess I'll go and…well…I guess I'll just go." McNab shifted awkwardly and went around Carlton, stopping briefly in front of O'Hara to probably give her an encouraging smile, or some other sentimental nonsense.

"Detective Lassiter! Juliet! Did you two find anything?" Guster looked at them with hope in his eyes, only for it to die at the looks on Carlton's and O'Hara's faces.

"You already gave McNab your statement, but we have a few questions for you." O'Hara said in a voice much too calm for her usually sweet—did he just think of her as sweet? nonsense! Head Detective Carlton Lassiter _never_ describes someone as _sweet_!—her usually…her usual O'Hara-ness.

"Alright, but I'm pretty sure I told McNab everything." Guster said. "But, just promise me that you'll let me know everything you can about what you find. I've known him so long, I don't even remember _not_ knowing him." Guster's eyes took on that despaired look again. If Carlton were a weaker man, he'd have felt bad. But Carlton was not a weaker man. Carlton was cold and collective.

"Has anything weird been going on lately? Like, has Spencer been complaining about anything from 'weird vibes,' to shadows following him? Anything like that? Have you noticed anything?"

"No, not that I know of anyways."

"Do you know why Spencer didn't see this coming? I mean, some 'psychic' to have not foreseen someone—" Carlton stopped at O'Hara's glare. In all honesty, she may be only half his height, but sometimes, she scared him.

"Shawn's visions don't normally work like that. He has to have something specific to look for, not only that, but sometimes he isn't allowed to see things." Guster answered, shifting around a bit.

Liar.

"Lassiter, is that really important to know? Shawn is _missing_! Spare us your cynicism and let's ask something relevant!" O'Hara glared. For some reason, Guster shifted uncomfortably again. Carlton filed that bit of information for later.

"Fine. Does this look familiar to you?" Carlton held up a picture of the walking stick from the crime scene. He got the picture from one of the crime scene geeks whose name he could never remember—Hobbes, or Hills, or something like that—as he walked in along with other photos in a manila folder. They may be spineless, but those nerds were quite efficient.

Guster looked at the photo and turned a bit green.

_Oh yeah, it had blood on it…woops_, Carlton thought to himself as O'Hara glared at him.

"Oh my gosh, is that what I think it is? That's—that's—that's Shawn's blood, isn't it!" Guster began to freak out.

"Calm down, Guster." Carlton demanded wearily. "Put yourself together. All this means is that someone whacked Spencer on the head hard enough to really hurt. More than likely, right now, the worst he's suffering is the worst headache of his life." It was a lie of omission, really. Just a little white lie…

"Now, Guster, do you know of anyone who would make such a thing?"

iiiii

Screams that weren't his own filled the air, sharp, piercing his eardrums with the agony.

He wanted to stop him, to stop her pain, but he still couldn't move. He was scared.

Frightened.

He couldn't even scream, he just kept saying the same thing over and over in his mind…

_Please stop, please stop, please stop…please…stop…_ But no matter how hard he tried, Shawn wasn't psychic. He couldn't stop anything using telekinetic powers. He was helpless.

iiiii

Henry Spencer knew without looking at a clock that it was 6:00 pm, he could tell by the length of the shadows cast by his armrest. It was a reliable method that he had taught his son, telling the time by shadow lengths, forcing him to have the Pythagorean Theorem down so well he could do it without missing a beat.

His son.

His son who surpassed him in observational skills, deductive reasoning, and speed. His one and only son—well, his only son as far as he knew, but his memory _was_ a little shaky about the goings on during the spring break of his sophomore year in college, where he got his first taste of tequila, and learned that holding your beer does not mean how many you can get down before you pass out. Good times.

Every father has their regrets, and Henry was no exception. He sometimes wondered if perhaps he _was_ just a little too hard on the guy. A little too strict. A little too demanding. A little too—oh what the heck. Henry Spenser was a hard-ass, and that's all there is to it. It was just that, when Shawn said he wanted to be a cop, he just got so excited and was a bit carried away.

Just a bit.

But, really, had he done anything wrong? He taught the kid how to think for himself, how to reason things out, see the whole picture and search for the pieces until it looked like it could mean something.

Henry remembered the first time Shawn beat him at the hat game. Yes. _Beat_ him. He caught something Henry missed. That was one of the proudest days of his life, and the fact that it happened when Shawn was seven, made Henry no less proud—albeit, slightly embarrassed with himself at not noticing the blond lady's hat when he had seen not only her child's little beanie, but also the kid's teddy bear's baseball cap. The kid was a genius, and would've been a darn good cop, if only he hadn't had the attention span of an ADHD gnat, or if he had more of a drive to settle down.

But now, he was gone.

He was gone, and for the first time, Henry felt like a complete, utter failure.

iiiii

_The Day After_

iiiii

When Shawn opened his eyes, he didn't remember who he was for a moment. All he knew was that his forehead felt like a den of dragons was playing some sort of twisted, flaming game of tag. Dragons with particularly bad aim.

He tried to rub his forehead and instead felt some sort of gauze was wrapped around it.

He had no knowledge of the past two days, he didn't even know where he was.

Shawn sat up from where he was—the ground judging by the cool, hard feel of it—and looked around.

An alleyway of some sort.

What had he gotten himself into?

He didn't remember getting drunk—really! He didn't, not this time at least.

Maybe he had gotten himself into a fight? Those folks at the casino could get rough sometimes…

Shawn stood up, gripping a Dumpster for support when the world began to swim. He looked around again, but saw nothing of interest, so he walked towards the light—in a literal sense and not an allegory for death sort of way.

He looked around and began to panic.

Where was he? There was no way he was at the Casino, heck, there was no way he was even in the same city!

Shawn looked around, trying to see if he could find out where he was and if he could fix this drunken disaster. He had heard of people getting drunk and married, waking up next to a stranger in their bed and underpants waving around on the ceiling fan like a flag on the Forth of July, but this kind of stuff didn't happen to normal people, right?

Right?

Shawn shook his head—bad idea judging by the intense pain that brought on—and looked around.

No skyscrapers, so not Vegas…plus, not much advertising—which would be helpful—oh! A newspaper! Shawn picked up the newspaper and his jaw dropped.

Santa Barbara?

Forget the alcohol, someone must have slipped something crazy in his drink! Santa Barbara!

He'd sooner go back there than open up a fake psychic detective office!

There was just no way. No way!

Shawn shook his head again, a bad idea, and the world swam out of focus again. Shawn Spencer fell out onto the sidewalk, not seeing the small blue car screeching to a halt.

iiiii

Gus was driving to work, seeing Shawn everywhere, like on _The Sixth Sense_.

He already gotten flicked off five times, cussed out three and honked at four. He really needed to pay attention, and he was trying, but his best friend had just been abducted by a homicidal maniac and had yet to be found. The only way Gus could be calm, was if he were dead—which, of course, would solve absolutely nothing, a fact that Gus was fully aware of, thank you very much.

Spiky hair caught his eye—Shawn? No, just some other Nick Lashey wannabe.

Gus snorted. "Nick Lashey wannabe. That's pretty good. Why can't I ever come up with this stuff when I actually have an opportunity to use it?" Gus frowned again and sighed.

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING, JACK—"

Gus flinched. Oops…

"You'd be distracted too, if you're best friend disappeared. I'm just saying." Gus muttered to himself, glaring at the offending red pick up truck driver giving him the finger.

Suddenly, some dude with mangled hair fell out from behind a wall and onto the sidewalk. The man's forehead was wrapped around with white gauze, but Gus could've sworn he saw a flash of red…the man looked kind of like…but, no…it couldn't be, could it?

Nick Lashey after being hit by a truck?

Gus slammed on the brakes, turned his car off, burst through the door, running towards the fallen man. The gauze definitely had blood seeping through it, Gus could tell despite that the man was face down on the ground.

Gus gingerly turned the man over and saw none other than Shawn Spencer, his heart pounded even faster than before.

"Shawn? Shawn! Oh my gosh! Someone call 911!" Gus yelled as he checked Shawn's vital signs.

iiiii

We'll see how this goes...I have some pre-written, but I won't guarantee quick updates. I do have quite the sadistic side... Bye y'all.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:

Cuddly Carrots=XX

Steve Franks=XY

f`(cuddly carrots)=2X

f`(steve franks)=X(dy/dx)+Y

X=2(f`(cuddly carrots))

…you guys will just have to believe me when I say I'm not Steve Franks…

HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH

The Night Of The Day After

HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH

When Shawn Spencer opened his eyes, his first thought was to scream at someone to either take the fire poker off of his forehead, or to wipe the acid off of his brow. His second thought was to wonder if being probed felt like a colonoscopy. He then wondered if when the mother ship returned him to Earth he would get an awesome nickname like 'Crazy Joe,' albeit, 'Crazy Joe' really wouldn't make too much sense because his first name was Shawn, his last name Spencer, and middle name was Taylor—although one time he did dream that he was James Roday, and boy was that one _weird_ dream!

Maybe his name would be 'Spacey Spencer,' or 'Crazy Dude,' or 'Shawn of the Dawn' (well, that last one was more of an idea for a comic book he had, but it was still pretty catchy, right?). First though, he had to decide if he had actually been kidnapped by aliens, or if he was just being a paranoid lame-o pants.

Shawn finally actually looked around and saw that he was in a hospital room, to his dismay, hooked up to a heart monitor instead of strapped down to a sterilized table awaiting the probatory phase. Although, even if it wasn't as cool as being abducted by aliens and getting a really awesome derogatory nickname, it was still kinda cool, in that 'I've always secretly wanted to be dying like the people on those stupid Soap Operas his father secretly watches' kind of way, he supposed.

He thought about how he got there—he still wasn't ready to rule out the aliens yet, but didn't someone say that the most obvious answer usually was the best answer? Maybe he got in an accident going home from the Casino. He didn't think so, because he couldn't even remember leaving the casino, much less getting on his motorcycle, but still.

Crap! His motorcycle was still at the casino! Those dirty Indians better not have taken it!

But no…this didn't feel like Vegas—and not just because he was still pulling for the alien abduction theory, but because he wasn't even sure if this was Nevada anymore. No, definitely not Nevada…but he'd been here before…he just couldn't remember when—which was odd, considering the whole 'eidetic memory being honed by his cop propaganda brainwashing father as a child' thing.

He thought back to when the last time he was conscious was. It wasn't at the casino…no…it was more recent.

Something dark and kind of dirty…Dumpsters…smelled of dead cats and garbage…no advertisements….alleyway?

Santa Barbara!

Somehow, he ended up in Santa Barbara. It could have been a dream, of course, but normally his dreams were filled with dancing monkeys, Gus starring in a cheesy sitcom, or saving the world from demented Lego Jedi radical groups bent on world domination.

Hey! It could happen…

He was 80% sure that it _couldn't_ have been a dream, because he suddenly knew where he recognized the room from—or the style, at least. It was definitely a Santa Barbara hospital room—why? Well, number one, there weren't any Gambling Help Hotline numbers. Number two; well, the Santa Barbara area code was printed on his bracelet. Three, well, there hadn't really been a three, and number two could safely take away any probable cause for the most paranoid of Doubting Thomasses…Thomases…Thomasi? No, definitely Thomasses.

"Mr. Spencer? Good, you're awake." Shawn looked over towards the voice that came out of nowhere and tried not to drop his jaw too much.

She was about 37-23-36, blond, and close enough to his age to not worry about being cougar prey or accused of pedophilia.

Score!

Shawn did a mental fist pump because he'd rather not pull his IV drip. He shuddered. Pointy objects had always given him the creeps.

Now, how to start conversation…He could just wait for her to talk first, but then that would ruin any need for small talk. She was probably busy and would need to leave as soon as possible…but what to say? Would an _Animaniacs_ reference be considered offensive? He didn't think so—most of those that he had tried it on had thought it was cute. Couldn't hurt to try.

"Hellooo, Nurse!"

She rolled her eyes. Drat. Apparently _Animaniacs_ did not amuse her. "Not quite, it's Dr. actually. Dr. Buckpitt. I'm the doctor you've been assigned." Shawn blinked. Did he hear her right?

Buckpitt? No. Never mind. Even _he_ had standards. Besides, she was married, judging by the rock on her left middle finger…

Wait! She was _married_, and she took on a name like Buckpitt? She must really love the guy.

Or he was filthy rich.

Or she was crazy.

"Okay…" Shawn said awkwardly, cursing himself. He was normally much more suave and witty, but his head _burned_, and she wasn't worthy of his banter anyways.

"Now, you have some…visitors…in the waiting room causing a ruckus. Normally, we wouldn't allow visitors at this time of night, but since you're awake now and they…refuse…to leave, the hospital decided to make an exception in your case." Dr. Buckpitt looked as though she thought having insistent visitors was the worst sin in the world—even though everyone knows that nothing could ever be worse than throwing away perfectly good pineapples or beheading puppies with pizza cutters after lining them up in a row (traumatic nightmare—Shawn didn't really care to explain).

"I'll be back later to ask some questions." Dr. Buckpitt's nose scrunched up, as if asking questions smelled as bad as her last name, a name that was a i_real_/i sin in and of itself. How did the quote go? A rose by any other name than Buckpitt would smell just as sweet?

"Alrighty, Dr. Buttpick, I mean Pickbutt, I mean—" Dr. Buckpitt glared at him, but finally left the door as two oddly familiar strangers barged in, trampling her in the process. Shawn nearly laughed at the Wicked Witch of the West's misfortune.

"Shawn!" The two yelled at the same time, both sounding oddly familiar…

HIHIHIHIHIH

"Shawn!" Gus and Mr. Spencer yelled at the exact same time, jostling each other as they made it past that evil doctor with that horrible last name. It was something like Buttstick, or Stuckbutt, or something—though it fit her facial expressions. Like she had a '_Stick_' up her '_Butt_!' Get it? Stick up her butt? Gus really cracked himself up sometimes. And people called _Shawn_ the funny one? Puh-lease. Oh, speaking of Shawn…

"Dude! Don't ever scare us like that again! What the heck happened to you?" Gus yelled, fidgeting around, resisting the urge to do something embarrassing that Shawn would haunt him with for the rest of his life.

Shawn opened his mouth, looking confused, as if about to ask a question, but Mr. Spencer interrupted him.

"Shawn! What the heck is wrong with you? What happened to your head? Where were you? Well don't just sit there looking like an idiot, you have some explaining to do!" Mr. Spencer looked stern, but Gus could see the genuine concern beneath the harsh words—it was a concern that, for some reason, Shawn never saw. So much for being observant and having an eidetic memory…

"Dad?" Shawn still looked confused. Gus's relief, anger, and smugness began to turn into worry again.

"Don't tell me you're drunk!" Mr. Spencer yelled, but it wasn't in anger. The man had more issues with expressing emotions than well, than Shawn himself! Now Gus could see where Shawn got it from, the only difference between the two was that Shawn hid behind jokes, and Mr. Spencer hid behind stern anger.

"Why are you so old? And who are you?" Shawn looked over at Gus. Gus thought for a second that perhaps this would be one of Shawn's pranks, but when he looked into Shawn's eyes, he didn't see the glint of mischief he was sure he'd see. He saw only confusion, but what really concerned him was the recognition he did _not_ see.

"Shawn? Don't you know me?" Gus asked, his voice dripping with disbelief and not the least bit of horror.

"If I did, I wouldn't have asked! Duh! Although, something about you seems…familiar…" Shawn trailed off, wincing in pain as he made that stupid face of his when he was trying to remember obscure details.

Something was definitely wrong.

"Shawn, are you okay?" Mr. Spencer asked, breaking his usual harshness. Something was _very_ wrong.

"No, not really. The whole forehead feeling like a bunch of fire ants are having a conga party picnic on it a bit of a damper on my mood, if you know what I mean. But a better question, Dad, is are _you_ okay? You've sure let yourself go. But anyways, there's something I need to ask of you, and you."

Shawn looked over at Gus. "So, Dad," Shawn nodded towards his father.

"Mr. Tall, Dark and Oddly Familiar," Shawn nodded over at Gus. "Do either of you know why the heck I'm in Santa Barbara? I _was_ at a casino, working, but somehow I woke up here—well, not _here_ here, but an alleyway in Santa Barbara _here_ here. Though I did wake up here just a few minutes ago, so technically—" Mr. Spencer cut Shawn off from his rambling. Gus smiled, knowing how much it bothered his friend to be cut off.

"Shawn, what year is it?" Mr. Spencer asked. Gus wondered why he'd ask that. Talk about non sequiturs…

"And now, dad, it looks like you have early-onset Alzheimer's! Why is it that _I'm_ in the hospital, with everyone acting as if I'm on my deathbed, when _you're_ clearly the one who is dying?"

"Shawn, just answer the question!" Mr. Spencer looked frustrated—this time, there really wasn't anything hidden behind it. Shawn really could do a number on a person's blood pressure sometimes, even _after_ being traumatized to the point of amnesia, he's just saying.

"Duh! It's 1996! Everyone knows that! Gonna ask me how many hats next time?" Gus's jaw dropped. He looked over at Mr. Spencer and saw that even though the man wasn't as surprised as Gus thought he'd be, he was shaking his head in resignation.

Something was _beyond_ wrong with his friend.

"Shawn!" Henry bellowed at the same time as that wimpy Gus kid his son was friends with, running over that Dr. B***hpick, or whatever her name was, in the process of storming into his son's room.

He heard Gus yelling something at his son, but he tuned it out. He had never been more relieved in his entire life—don't get me wrong, he was still concerned over his son's welfare, but he was just happy that he had the chance to even _see_ his son again.

"Shawn! What the heck is wrong with you! What happened to your head! Where were you! Don't just sit there looking like an idiot! You have some explaining to do!" He managed not to wince at his voice. He meant to sound concerned, but all he could manage was angry. What had his wife called it? Emotional constipation? No wonder he practically had to bribe Shawn or threaten the boy to get him to come over and visit him.

"Dad?" Henry noticed that his son looked confused. Something wasn't right about this. His son was rarely confused—he may act like the world's biggest moron sometimes, but rarely was he ever actually confused to the point of letting it show. Why would he be confused? Why did he question Henry as if he wasn't sure? Why didn't he greet Gus _before_ greeting him.

Most importantly: where was the smart ass remark he had been expecting?

"Don't tell me you're drunk!" Henry shouted, even though he had meant to ask what all Shawn remembered.

"Why are you so old? Who are you?" Shawn asked. Something was _very_ wrong here. He knew Shawn wasn't faking it—he could always tell. Something was _very_ wrong with his son. It sounded like amnesia, hopefully it would just be temporary.

"Shawn? Don't you know me?" Gus asked.

"If I did, I wouldn't have asked! Duh!" At least the kid still had his sense of humor and bad timing. "Although, something about you seems…familiar…" Shawn trailed off and tried to scrunch up his face, but his wound obviously still hurt, judging the pained wince he made.

"Shawn? Are you alright?" Henry asked, not liking the situation one bit. He needed to know what all Shawn remembered, but he had a sinking suspicion that he knew _exactly_ what all Shawn remembered, and that he wasn't going to be very happy about it.

"No—" Shawn chattered on again, talking about whatever came into that bizarre brain of his. Henry let it go on for a bit, enjoying the sounds of his son sounding like, well, his son, but interrupted it before it got too out of hand. As nice as it sounded, it still wasn't quite right. It seemed…immature—well, immature for Shawn, that is. He needed to just suck it up and ask the question he was pretty sure would clear everything up, for better or worse.

"Shawn, what year is it?"

Shawn, of course, began to ramble on again, rather than answering his question. Some things never change.

"Shawn! Just answer the question!"

"Fine! It's 1996! Everyone knows that!" Henry was horrified, despite the fact that he had already known the answer.

You don't have to be psychic to predict bad news, sometimes.

HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH

Morning Post Day After

HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIH

Carlton walked into his office with his coffee—three parts cream and four parts sugar, of course—and sat down at his desk, still going over Spencer's file.

Spencer's file.

It was too quiet without the twerp flying about and getting into everyone's way—particularly his. Sure, Carlton didn't _miss_ Spencer by any stretch of the imagination, heck, he even felt almost relieved at the absence of the nuisance, but it was just too quiet. He needed background noise to be able to concentrate, and now that the shadow that never shut up was gone, everyone—except Carlton, of course—was quiet and worrying about Spencer. Everyone seemed to be more reserved, less friendly—even that officer who almost sued O'Hara seemed down, of course, that could just be the way she looked, but the facts remained. Everybody missed Shawn Spencer, Psych Psychic Detective Who Beat Carlton Every Time. Everybody.

Except for Carlton, of course.

Carlton looked at the crime scene photos again and winced, not out of concern—of course—but at the mess. Definitely at the mess.

He looked over at the pictures of the cane and winced again—still not because he was worried, but in sympathy, like whenever a guy sees another guy get hit in the balls; it's an involuntary reaction, no matter who it is.

Sympathy pain, not concern. He didn't even need to justify it.

Not that he needed to justify anything! Carlton Lassiter was _not_ concerned over Spencer's safety!

He wasn't!

He looked at the inscription on the cane again, the harsh _OBEY_ glaring at him, mocking him.

"Screw it." Carlton cursed, slamming his fists on the desk.

HIHIHIHIH

Karen had just arrived in her office, sat down in her chair, and sighed. Much as she hated to admit it, Shawn Spencer sure could find a way to not only get under your skin, but stuck in your mind.

She was worried, very worried in fact, and she was willing to admit it. Sometimes she wondered if perhaps the kid was more trouble than he was worth, until she remembered the time he got every officer in the building to make it seem as if Detective Lassiter had solved a case, just to help him 'recover' from a set back. And then, she'd remember the time Spencer uncovered that babysitting scam, saving her neighbors from theft and also saving her child from being raised by those rotten scoundrels—granted, he hadn't _really_ done what she asked, but still, he prevented her from a gargantuan mistake that could possibly have ruined her career. Then she remembered how Detective Lassiter had finally seemed to begin to relax—not to mention show concern for another human being, if his sulking and fickle temper as of now were anything to go by. And then, she remembered how he helped make Detective O'Hara feel welcome, despite the generally cold reception she had received, no thanks to Karen.

And then she remembered that the first week she began hiring Spencer as a consultant, their overall success rate as far as solving crimes soared. Shawn Spencer was probably the reason she became chief, as scary as that sounded.

She had to face it, as many problems and headaches as Shawn Spencer brought, not only did he make up for it tenfold in nearly everything he did, but when he left, he took everything back, twenty-fold.

The punk was trouble, but boy was he worth it.

Karen jumped as she heard her phone ring. She sighed, calmed herself and answered it.

"Santa Barbara Police Department, this is Chief Karen Vick speaking, and it had better be important!" Her jaw dropped and she listened for a few minutes before speaking.

"You've found him!" Karen nearly smiled.

Nearly.

HIHIHIHIHIH

"Carlton!" Karen entered his office, a serious look on her face—a serious look Carlton didn't see until lifting his head from his arms and looking at her, a red spot on his forehead from where he had banged his head repeatedly against his desk a few minutes prior to her entrance.

"What is it?" Carlton asked, his eyebrows coming together as he noted the severe air to her.

"He's been found." She said simply.

"Who? How?" Carlton asked, bewildered.

"Guster. He just saw him while driving to work yesterday morning."

"Where?" Carlton instantly sat up straighter, dreading her next words, because whatever they were, they couldn't be good, considering the look on her face. "He's not…he isn't…the kid better not be dead!" Carlton finally said.

"He's alive, but we have bigger worries than that. He was in an alleyway, when he walked out towards the street and collapsed on the sidewalk. Guster said that he found him with his forehead wrapped in gauze, blood seeping through. He's at a hospital now, so as soon as possible, I'll need you and O'Hara to go there and see if you can find anything out, but there's something I have to warn you about first."

Carlton stared in shock, but quickly shook his head and nodded, knowing that this would be the part he wouldn't like.

HIHIHIHIHIH

Juliet sat quietly in Lassiter's Crown Victoria, for once not trying to get him to talk or make any kind of social niceties, or even nod. Nothing.

She was in shock.

Shawn didn't remember anything, if what Chief Vick said was true, which unless this was some sort of horrid nightmare where everyone was out to get her, then it had to be true.

Shawn Spencer, her boyfriend, thought he was in the year 1996.

She couldn't believe it! She couldn't even _comprehend_ it! It was just so…so…_bizarre_!

And now, she was thinking in exclamation points—a fact that really wasn't the most pressing matter, but still!

Juliet shook her head and looked out the window when she felt the car make a left turn. They were there. The parking lot of the hospital where her boyfriend couldn't even remember the kiss they shared three days ago. She wasn't going to cry…she wasn't going to cry…she _refused_ to cry! She was strong. Juliet was a big girl. She could handle this professionally, she could!

And then afterwords she'd go home, put on her heather grey Eyore hoodie and matching sweatpants—the ones with the hole in the middle of her crack, but still held sentimental value so that she couldn't ever get rid of them—get out the chocolate ice cream with hunks of slimy fudge that somehow managed to taste delicious despite their unsavory texture—and not any of that Healthy Choice crap, no, she'd get the _good_ stuff—dump chocolate sauce all over her overflowing bowl, sprinkles, Oreo crumbs, and then, she's eat about three spoonfuls of it and realize that it was _beyond_ way too much, eat it anyways, puke, and cry herself to sleep. She smirked to herself and made a mental note to grab her ice cream on the way home after work.

She deserved it.

She also made a mental note to renew her gym membership.

"O'Hara!" Lassiter shouted at her, breaking her from her reverie.

"Huh?" Juliet answered intelligently.

"O'Hara! I said we're here!" Lassiter looked frustrated. How long had she been mulling over her after work plans? Oops.

"Yeah, of course. Let's go already!" Juliet said, unbuckling herself, going back into 'gung-ho Juliet' mode.

"Whatever." Lassiter muttered. She could hear the roll of his eyes.

HIHIHIH

Shawn Spencer looked into the hand mirror and couldn't believe his eyes.

He was i_old_/i! He wasn't supposed to get old! Old was for people like his dad, or his mom, or even evil librarians who yell at you to shut up, despite the fact that they too are breaking the silence in a much less amusing manner than calling Gus a lame-o!

Fruity as it was for a 30 something year old fart to mention Peter Pan, he was supposed to be just like him and fly off to Neverland! Now, he works at a casino one second, the next he wakes up with a—slightly, he wasn't quite at the decrepit stage of aging—receding hair line, a somewhat stable job, a relationship with his father, and a girlfriend he hadn't even slept with yet! Man, old people never have any fun—though the fake psychic part did give him a bit of a kick. Even if he had kept it up for a few years, at least his one steady job was a bit of an almost scam. He wasn't a _total_ penny loafer wearing station wagon owner with a toupee. Yet. There was still hope.

Maybe it was his midlife crisis? Oh no! That was even worse! That meant his life was halfway over!

Crap! His life _was_ halfway over! This sucked purple people eater applesauce cakes!

"Dude! Gus! Why did you let me get old?" Shawn asked aloud, never taking his eyes off of his reflection for fear he'd miss his hair graying and falling out to make room for his liver spots.

"Shawn! I'm just as old as you are!" Gus sounded offended.

"Yeah, but you've always been a funsucker, I'm supposed to be wild and unbound to anything! A drifter, a vagrant! A gypsy, tramp, and thief!"

"You still are. You sleep in most days, you live next to a laundrymat because it's within walking distance of a Jamba Juice. You pretend to be psychic and speak with the dead. The tramp part, well, I guess you have settled down a bit, but Juliet _is_ pretty, and she was a challenge. As for the thief part, you always steal Lassiter's pens."

"And your maple syrup, but I think I used it up last week."

"You what? Shawn, that was Aunt Jemima's! You know I love Aunt Jemima's—wait a second, that went missing last week, and if you only remember being at the casino…Shawn, do you remember anything else?" Gus looked eager, forgetting about the maple syrup.

Shawn thought about it for a minute. "No, I can't remember anything else. It just sort of popped out of my mouth." Shawn answered. Gus sighed and slumped.

"That doesn't mean you're going to get away with stealing my maple syrup Shawn. I'm just saying."

"You _still_ say that stupid "I'm just saying," crap? Gus, I've already told you, it doesn't make you sound even _close_ to Will Smith, I'm just saying."

"No! That's _my_ catch phrase, and it's eons better than "I've heard it both ways." Your catch phrase just makes you look stupid!"

"And yours doesn't? I'm just saying."

"I've heard it both ways!"

"I'm just saying!"

"I've heard it both ways!"

"I'm just saying!"

"I've heard it both ways!"

"I've heard it both ways!"

"Shawn! Just because that worked on Daffy Duck _and_ Elmer Fudd, doesn't mean it'll work on me, I'm just saying!"

"Ha ha! You lost!" Shawn said gleefully. Gus thought back to what he just said and groaned.

"Shawn! You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did—"

"Will you two shut up?" A voice came from the door that had opened while they had their little battle—a fight that Shawn totally won. He's just saying.

"Lassie!" Shawn shouted, a wide grin lighting up his face for a split second before his face went blank and his eyes glazed over.

Carlton had just approached the room that was supposedly Spencer's when he heard voices shouting. He was instantly on his guard until he realized it was just Spencer and that stupid side kick of his, Guster. It sounded like something stupid, and considering the two's history, it was _bound_ to be stupid, but he had a job to do. Maybe when he opened the door, they would stop. Of course, then Spencer would say something to piss him off…of course, Spencer thought he was in the days when iPods were science fiction and the unspeakable things of CIA, so perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.

He opened the door and rolled his eyes.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did—"

"Will you two shut up?" Carlton yelled, a head ache forming behind his right eye, which had begun to twitch.

"Lassie!" Spencer shouted to his surprise. Wasn't the kid stuck in 1996? Perhaps he had gotten his memory back in the time it took Carlton and O'Hara to drive here?

But no. Something was wrong. Spencer's eyes were glazed over and his face went blank—no, it went _white_. Something was _very_ wrong.

"Shawn? Shawn! Are you okay? Shawn!" Gus went over towards Spencer whose mouth opened and closed, forming words with no sounds, horror reaching his eyes and draining the lighthearted joy—lighthearted joy? was Carlton becoming a Hallmark greeting card, or what?—that had once been there.

"Spencer! Snap out of it!" Carlton yelled, though not out of concern. He was _not_ concerned about Spencer. Not. At. All.

"No! Stop—no!" Spencer started screaming and trembling, fear rolling off of him in waves that would have made the Sri Lankans _thankful_ for the mere ripple that destroyed them.

"Spencer, nothing's happening to you—" Spencer cut him off.

"You're hurting her! Stop! No—Stop! Stop! Stop!" Spencer begged and fell off the bed. Where were the hospital staff when you needed them?

"Please stop! Please stop! Please—"

Juliet was slightly ashamed. Instead of going into the room, she hung back at the door, afraid of what—or _who_—she'd find there. The sounds of Sh—the victim and Gus arguing had brought a smile to her face, but it wasn't enough to get her into the room.

When did she become such a coward?

Her musing was broken by the sound of Gus's freaking out. What was that about? She peeked into the room and saw Sh—the _vic's_ face was white as snow, eyes glazing over as if stuck in some sort of demented day dream.

And then the screaming began. Terrible, horrible, blood curdling screaming—and not that stupid scream Sh—oh forget professionalism—_Shawn_ made whenever he was slightly scared and still able to be a moron. No. This was a _real_ scream full of _real_ terror.

Juliet was torn between grabbing a doctor, running the _heck_ out of there, and rushing in to comfort—or try to, anyways—the one who had been there for her so many times before.

She ran.

HIHIHIHIHIH

So there ya go. The next update may come at anytime-whether that means tomorrow (doubtful, but I'm cruel enough to get people's hopes up, assuming of course, that people like this) or sometime next week. We shall see. Anyways, towards the end and in certain parts I was too tired to proofread. I don't think I like this chapter, but oh well. Who gives a rip what I think. Toodles.

PS: Oh and if you see this weird think with lowercase i's it'll look like ithis/i, tell me where it is so I can italicize it. Okay. Now good bye for real.

PPS: Okay, I lied. I might end up going through this chapter and messing around with it some more, so yeah...I'm not sure why exactly that's pertinent, but I'm tired to the point of deliriousness. So yeah. That's it. For reals. Go away.

PPPS: Review, gosh darn it!


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